


Together On Our Own

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Chaptered, Child Abuse, Incest, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite their parents’ death and having to drop out of school at the tender age of 16, Bro has never resented raising his baby brother Dave. But the time comes for Dave to grow up and Bro finds it difficult to stay in his role of guardian. Dave has his own ideas on how to grow up, and takes advantage of Bro’s newfound inexperience. Things  finally seem to be settling into a new status quo when pandemonium strikes yet again. Court dates and accusations of child abuse fly, and Dave is taken away. Bro now has the choice to make: let bygones be bygones, or find a way to keep his brother close despite the separation.</p><p>Work in progress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Track 01: Time To Waste / Bro

**Author's Note:**

> Done for kink meme, fill here: http://homesmut.livejournal.com/7440.html?thread=8903696#t8903696
> 
> Too lazy to fill it there anymore, so here we are!

Track 01: Time to Waste

Bro

 

 

The finality of a dryer buzz is what jolts you out of your thoughts.

 

You've been sitting on the hard metal chair in front of the swiftly churning dryer for the past hour, hand propping your chin up. You pull it away now, almost groggy as you're ripped headlong from your daze. Your palm is bright red from the pressure. Your face is probably similarly crimson.

 

Disgust rears its ugly head. How you let yourself go so far out of noticing your surroundings, you don't know. You could get yourself into some shit like that. Getting distracted is weak, and Striders are not weak.

 

Your thoughts are elsewhere as you pluck the warm, spring-scented shirts from the dryer. Dave still hasn't come back from his donut run. Little punk probably decided to spend the money on something else, or maybe he's just gorging himself on the sugary confections so you don't get any. That's entirely possible and something you wouldn't put him past doing.

 

Speak of the devil. The scrawny kid skitters back into the laundromat, holding a pink box up high like it's a battle trophy.

 

"They were out of bear claws," he states matter-of-factly, "so I got some extra crème-filled ones instead. Don't worry, I made sure to invoke a righteous beat down for how insolently they ignored our needs."

 

"Damn bakery," you say, without much real animosity. "Ruining my whole day. Been looking forward to my bear claw since breakfast." You incline your head toward the folding table at the center of the room. "Put it there, we'll get to it in a minute. Now get your ass over here and help me fold."

 

You wait for the subtle grumbling you know is coming but he dumps the box and scurries over to you, scooping up an armful of clothing. You smile inwardly at his unusual eagerness and follow him with the rest of the bundle, taking your place beside him as you fold in unison.

 

The laundromat radio crackles to life, the smooth velvet-deep voice of a woman announcing the next playlist. "This is 104.3 Charm FM. Next up is some Alkaline Trio." The riffs of a guitar cut into the soft piano intro that had been playing underneath her voice.

 

 

You unconsciously sway to the beat as you continue folding shirts and pants and sheets. Dave's eyes are seering into your side, but you just smirk and throw a pair of grey plaid boxers (his) at his face. They catch him unawares and he grunts in surprise, then folds them and sticks them on the stack of boxers already accumulating in front of him.

 

Your lips form the words silently. "There's someone down below blowing you a kiss. They watch from their windows as all arms fall to their sides, and all eyes fix on the death of tomorrow."

 

Another piece of clothing flies to pop Dave in the face, and you smirk at him, raising your voice to actually sing a bit. "You had time to waste and I'm not sorry, such a basket case, hide the cutlery."

 

He grumbles, tips of his ears a bright red that matches his shirt. You ruffle his hair playfully and turn your concentration back to the folding.

 

Twenty minutes and a mountainous pile of clothing later, you're sprawled on one of the uncomfortable chairs again, Dave beside you, propping the box of donuts on your legs. While not a bear claw, the crème-filled éclair is a good enough substitute, light yellow insides oozing into your mouth smoothly, a confectionary mold to fit your tongue. You can't help but think, with the sound of Queen whisking across your eardrums and the taste of sugar against your palate, this is probably a good representation of heaven.

 

The donuts are demolished in less time than it took to fold the clothes. You abandon the box on the floor beside a washing machine, lid half-open, forlorn and empty, no longer full of saccharine promises. It guilts you slightly to leave it there instead of giving it proper burial in a dumpster, but you're a Strider, and you're busy with your life. There's no time to pay attention to stupid detail like that. There's only time to slipslide on through the day, feet light and synchronized like a smooth criminal dance.

 

The apartment is kind of trashed, like always. Neither of you notice much as you leave your shoes by the door and leave the laundry bags propped against your turntables. They'll most likely be strewn around the apartment in the next week and not put away properly, but you don't think either of your dressers have been used properly in ages anyway. You're fairly certain yours is full of ironically pink and fluffy underwear and condoms anyway. You haven't actually checked in a while.

 

It's still early in the day, but it's Sunday, and all you really want to do is sprawl out on the futon and play video games like a useless shit. Unfortunately there's still a shit ton of things you've got to get accomplished today. Spreadsheets for new Plush Rump subscriptions, budgeting for the next week 'cause you're pretty sure you can afford more than frozen burritos after the influx of smuppet popularity practically overnight, and technically you and Dave ought to duke it out on the roof for a little while so he doesn't slack, since you missed yesterday.

 

He's heading off to hole up in his room like always, but you snag him with a hand on his shoulder. He turns, face impassive but questioning. He's hiding his tension well, but you can still feel it running in the current beneath his skin. You grasp his shoulder a little tighter, an action of solidarity, before you pull away from him again.

 

"Roof. Now." Thumb jerks up at the ceiling expectantly. His posture stiffens slightly, and you hope he doesn't think this is punishment of some kind. You just want to get this over with so you can be the lazy ass you really want to be for the rest of the day.

 

He opens his mouth to ask you something, but you flashstep away. He should know by now that you become a sneaky, slippery bastard when you go into strife mode, and whatever questions are bouncing around in that feathery blond head of his don't matter to you. Besides, whatever he wants to ask he's bound to have an answer for himself already. This is a practice in self-reliance, self-trust. He doesn't need you to figure everything out for him. He needs to learn he's capable of surviving on his own.

 

He's taking his damn time getting to the roof. Either he's skipping out on you or he's putting too much thought into the weaponry he's bringing with. It doesn't matter if he's got a butterfly knife or a broadsword; you're still going to be kicking his ass.

 

Two crows are fighting over a ragged piece of newspaper at the far end of the roof. You can't imagine what's so important about it. It's not as if it's edible or even shiny or collectable. But apparently it's a big deal, because they're going at it viciously, angry and pained squawks alike cutting into the air like their tearing beaks. It's not like you have anything better to do while you wait for your slowpoke brother to make an appearance, so you watch them with slight amusement. The smaller of the crows is feisty and quick, but the other is just big enough that he's pushing the smaller back, overpowering him closer to the edge as if he's going to shove him off. The little guy fights back with gusto, puffing his feathers and flapping open his wings to seem bigger. His technique is all off, though, you can tell; his timing's a little off, he's not anticipating the bigger jabs accurately, and even though it seems like a fairly even fight you'd bet a hundred bucks on the big one winning despite his more laid-back strife style. You've been fighting for ages. You can tell these things. 

 

You don't get to witness the finish of the crows' battle, though, because Dave decides at that moment to appear, taking advantage of your slight distraction to land a blow on your back. It's not hard, just a warning hit to let you know he's there. You flashstep away before he can land another, foot darting out to trip him up. He doesn't fall, rolling into the momentum in a somersault and popping right back up, sword raised high and sturdy with both hands.

 

You give him the benefit of the doubt and stay static for a moment, feet sliding out wider into a martial artist's crouch, sword balanced one-handed as your left comes up, palm-first, to signify the beginning of the battle.

 

And so the dance begins. He slashes forward, weight into his sword's advances. You sidestep easily, leaving an afterimage he stumbles through. A light tap on the shoulder with the flat side of your sword to cue him in on your new location, and he turns to meet you, blades clashing in heat and sparks.

 

Neither of you are trying all that hard yet. Now is the time for stretches, fine-tuning of muscles, easing into the bloodlust and esoteric thrumming of war and equal footing on the battle field. There's a certain bladed foreplay that must happen first, to draw out the inner beasts responsible for the most instinctual of motions. Too much thought slows you down. Too much second-guessing, too much planning, makes muscles twitch and give away your next move. Without that, it's freeing, more fluid, more unpredictable and ultimately more successful.

 

You've been trying to teach Dave this for years, but he still can't quite let go of his ego. You win every time because of this, as you're starting to overpower him now, before the fight has even truly begun properly. He needs to learn to cut loose and just be, to become one with his sword and all that other zen fighting shit from kung fu movies you marathon on a regular basis.

 

Distraction is obvious in the way he's standing. You easily shove him backward and he slams onto his back, a harsh grunt of air leaving his lungs. Standing over him, you point your sword's tip against his chest lightly.

 

He doesn't fight back, or try to stand, or even say anything snarky to puff his bruised ego back up. He just lays there, breathing heavily, lips parted vulnerably. He drops his sword beside him and his fingers caress the concrete. You've never seen him like this after a battle, and you're mildly concerned.

 

"You're off your game today, kid," you murmur, moving away. "Best two out of three." You'll give him another chance. You like seeing him fail just as much as he does; that is, not at all. 

 

He stands, an almost imperceptible quiver in his knees, but then he's throwing himself at you with a fury you don't normally see, and you wonder if this was all a new feign technique he's been keeping from you. You can't help a slight smirk of pride, because shit, this is the first time he's really surprised you. Maybe he is learning. Maybe he's learning and is even putting his own flair on the shit you're teaching him.

 

His fighting takes a new form now, all power and close attacks and invasion of personal space. You let him, downplaying your own skill, curious to see what else he has up his sleeve. There's a tension buzzing between you, one you never noticed before, and it sends the hair at the nape of your neck standing up more than it does already on its own. You're hyper aware of his every action, every brush of his body against yours. Unconsciously you're moving back, and he's pushing you, not letting you shy away.

 

There's something you can't quite put your finger on about all this, something you don't know how to feel about. Your breath is catching in your throat and there's a tight anxiety pushing at your temples. You know this feeling but you don't want to admit to it, because that would make you fucked up.

 

But there's something here. You can't deny it, there is something electric in the way Dave's arms are brushing against yours as he tries to shove you backward, the way his lips part in a charged smirk. Is he in the same state you are?

 

You used to be able to read him as easily as a playboy magazine. Now you wonder if you're reading into him, projecting. Maybe it's time to stop this fight before it turns into something you'll both regret.

 

You pull out all the stops now, no moves barred, shutting down the guilty part of your subconscious in order to beat him down quickly. His surprise is obvious; he thought he was winning, but you're overturning this fight as easily as you'd overturn a desk. It's only a few more moments before he's back on the ground, panting from actual exertion this time, eyebrows knit together in frustration.

 

"Better luck next time, kiddo," you sneer to cover your anxiety, and leave the roof before he can reply.

 

You're going to need a cold shower and that makes you feel like shit.

 

Fucking around with the Tony Hawk game can't come soon enough.


	2. Track 02: Falling / Dave

Track 02: Falling

Dave

 

 

 

The last hour has gone by at a narcoleptic snail's pace and not for the first time you wish you could control time. Fuck, you just want it to be lunch time. Is that so much to ask for?

 

The teacher carries on about cell division like his students are actually listening. Yeah, right. The only kid who gives even half a fuck is Egbert, self-proclaimed "ghost biologist," and even he looks like he's trying not to fall asleep.

 

Your pen taps out an impatient beat against your closed notebook. You could be anywhere right now. You know for a fact Bro wouldn't give a shit if you skipped. Just as long as you stay up to date on your homework so you don't fail out or get held back. Maybe you should scoot off to the bathroom and just not come back. But there's no way you can get a word in edgewise with the way this teacher is going on and on.

 

Thinking about Bro distracts you enough for the moment, anyway. It was so fucking hard yesterday, holding yourself back during strife. Every rippling muscle and brush of skin sent you into mental hysterics like some kind of hyperactive anxiety-ridden Chihuahua, and it was nearly impossible to squash the urge to bring out a hand and touch his stomach, to feel those muscles sliding underneath taut skin and -- shit, you can't think about this in class. You shift uncomfortably, hoping nobody will notice the flesh piston problem in your pants.

 

You've been debating for ages on whether or not to tell him how you feel (what an understatement, almost beating out the award for last year's freak snowstorm being called a slight flurry on the news), but the answer has been a resounding no as long as you're still lost on how the fuck to tell him. It's not like you can just march right on up and say, "Oh yeah, I totally yank myself to thoughts of you and wouldn't mind bending over and taking it up the ass like some kind of prison bitch if you were my butch." You guess you could, and claim irony if it went badly, but if Bro misinterpreted it as irony first, you'd have to explain it's not and there is no way that wouldn't end up a flaming bloody train wreck.

 

Your foot joins your tapping pen, bouncing the fourths to the sixteen-beat rhythm you already have going. It's been five minutes. You can't do this for another forty. You need to get out of this fucking chair. It's uncomfortable and your pants are still tight and no one fucking cares about cells. You're tempted to tell your teacher to shove his powerpoint up his tight hairy ass but you've already been sent to the principal once this week and she is a terrifying shebeast with a little too much fondness for corporal punishment. You're damn sure she's a dominatrix in her free time. There's no way she's not, with her collection of black spanking paddles arranged on the wall behind her desk. And she smokes, in a long stem cigarette like the ones in those old Noir movies.

 

 

The only reason she hasn't killed you yet is the fact she seems to have a soft spot for Bro, who's come to bail you out more times than you can count. He always manages to insult her under the guise of flirtation. You're sure it doesn't go over her head -- she's pretty damn tall after all -- but it's obvious she doesn't give a shit. You don't really blame her. It's impossible to look at Bro and not want to jump on him like a badly trained retriever.

 

Yeah, you definitely don't want to see her again today, especially if it means you'd have to sit through her and Bro flirting over your punishment again. Fuck that.

 

Your pen-tapping is apparently "disruptive" because the teacher halts his speech and gives you a slightly cross-eyed glare.

 

"You, boy," he grunts. "Stop doing the tappy thing."

 

"What if I can=t stop?" you snark back. "What if, Mr. WV, my cell division will suddenly halt if I stop and my body just up and disintegrates like some kind of fuckin' sandman?"

 

"Bad etiquette! Swearing is impolite! And that isn't how division works, if you were paying attention at all."

 

"What if it's how mine works? I was born under special circumstances, sir. Injected with super-baby toxic powers and the ceasing of this tapping is my kryptonite."

 

Mr. WV looks uncomfortable. He's the most fun to mess with, because he gets conflicted between acting with his beloved etiquette and blowing up at you like some kind of nuclear reactor. You've dubbed the jittery anger spasms he does when he's lost his temper the "dumpass dance." He's getting close to that. You can tell by the twitch in his eyebrow.

 

You stop tapping and stand up. "Anyway, I gotta take a piss like a pregnant woman on steroids, so later." You whisk out of the room before he can send you to Ms. Snowman, hands in your pockets to momentarily mask the real reason your dick wants out of its pants.

 

The bathroom is a brief stop, just to rearrange your junk. You're hungry, but you'd really rather not stick around for the rest of the day. Besides, you haven't seen Bro in like four hours or something and that's too long to deal with today.

 

You're so glad you brought your skateboard. It takes about twenty minutes to skate home, but the fresh air and open spaces of the road that isn't school makes it more than enjoyable.

 

 

There's a car out front the high rise apartment building. It's a compact little thing, low to the ground. It probably wouldn't be hard to jump. You speed up toward it, foot poised and ready to kick yourself over, but you start too soon and smash into the driver's window instead. The glass shatters and slices your arm as your momentum keeps you moving forward, sliding over the roof and headfirst onto the hard pavement on the other side of the car, landing right on your hurt arm.

 

Fuck, that hurt. You roll off your arm and wince. Something might be broken. At the very least you're winded completely and your arm is bleeding like a slut in a slasher flick.

 

You know you shouldn't look at it, that it's going to be nasty, but you find yourself glancing down anyway.

 

Mother. Fucker.

 

Your bone is sticking out.

 

Your arm is broken and the bone is sticking out of the flesh and you look like an extra in a zombie movie except this isn=t makeup and fake blood, this is real. Your arm is really, truly fucked up.

 

You have no idea how you didn't immediately feel that, but now that you're looking at it, a searing pain explodes down your forearm and radiates into your fingertips. The whine that wavers from your throat makes you sound like a cornered animal and it is completely, unrelentingly unironic.

 

Vaguely, the sound of screaming fills your ears, and that's the last you hear before the pain swallows you whole and you pass out.

 

You wake up in a dingy hospital room with a bright pink cast on your hurt arm -- the right. It aches dully, but it's not the same intensity of pain as before, so you're cool with it.

 

Bro is sitting on a chair next to the bed, thumbing through an old issue of Game Bro. The title swims and you close your eyes.

 

"Uh," you manage before realizing your tongue feels heavy, like a wet sponge. You swallow with some difficulty and try again. "Bro, hey."

 

He looks up at you, eyebrow quirking over his impossible shades. "Took you long enough to wake up," he snorts, closing the magazine. "You know you've got about twenty screws and a metal bar in your arm? You're like a fuckin' cyborg."

 

You look down at the cast again, half expecting your bone to be sticking out to greet you again. Instead, all your senses are assaulted by is neon pink plaster and a penis already drawn on with black sharpie marker. Wonderful. You'll have to thank Bro for that later via cast-whip to the face.

 

 

Moving it is awkward but not painful, really. Actually, there's a pleasant buzzing in your head and despite your sudden drastic need for water, you feel like a million bucks.

 

"Bro, dude, you should have seen me, I was like trying to jump over this car like that scene in Dukes of Hazzard, but I biffed it and it ended up more like Thelma and Louise."

 

"Your sense of timing's a little too fast. S'why you still flub up when we're jamming together," Bro cuts in, and he sounds pretty unimpressed, which is like a punch to the gut, but whatever, you roll with it. The buzzing in your head doesn't subside, and you try to sit up so you can look at him better.

 

The light is way fucking bright, and it kind of hurts. You realize only then that your shades are gone. You'd panic, but oh, they're over there on that table, and that's kinda far away, and the light doesn't hurt as much as it normally does and it's just Bro in the room with you so it's not like it really matters. Plus you think you have some stitches in your face, next to your eye, so having shades on would probably hurt more than the light anyway.

 

The shades are dropped in your lap suddenly, and you look up at Bro, who's now standing right beside the bed. You guess he probably noticed you looking for them. A grin splits your face and you feel as doofy as Egbert, but right now there are too many golden bubbles in your head for you to care much.

 

"Wow, how high do you have to be," Bro smirks, "to even smile like that?"

 

"Pretty damn high," you agree. "What am I on, anyway? Its like... I'm fucking breathing sunshine or something."

 

"Hydrocodone, I think."

 

"Mmmsweet. Hey." You can't see him very well when he's standing this close. Your neck doesn't want to move that far up. It's way too fucking comfy on the pillow. "Come down here."

 

He crouches. "What."

 

"No, come here." He's not close enough. You really just want to rub your face into his essence, inhale the cinnamon-sweat musk that clings to his hair.

 

He humors you and leans a little closer, and you reach out your good hand and touch his face. He doesn't flinch, just stares at you impassively as always, and you take that as a good sign.

 

 

The skin under your fingertips is vibrating with silver and ecstasy, engulfing your entire arm with affectionate incandescence. It's so smooth, like water turned to silk, so good, so unbelievably soft. Your hand trails back behind his neck and pulls, and there's no resistance; he just comes with the motion, closer still, nose touching nose in a spark of perfection before you tip your head up a hair's breadth and cover his lips with yours.

 

There's a moment, now, that stretches into eternity. Your lungs are on fire but you don't dare pull away first. Your veins are pinging with want and need and painful, wonderfully crushing heat, and if you weren't sluggish and broken you'd be pulling him as close as possible, limbs wrapped tightly around him in a feverish cage. More contact, please, you can't stand this alone, you need him everywhere, invading every private spot with his zeal.

 

But it's not meant to happen now, because he's pulling away, lips parted, breath exhaling in a shaky murmur -- Bro, shaky? This is new -- and he's pulling on the brim of his hat and standing and starting toward the door, muttering something about buying you a soda, and then he's gone.

 

The ache in your chest would be unbearable if you didn't know he'd be back. You've always got each other's backs. You have to. You're all each other's got. You're all Bro's got. And god, you would go to the moon and back for him, you're positive he knows that, even though you've never explicitly said it out loud.

 

"I love you," you mumble after his long-gone form. The crashing percussion of dopamine and lethargy basks over you like the ocean, and you give in, sinking into the tide of much-needed slumber.


	3. Track 03: Step By Step / Bro

Track 03: Step By Step  
Bro

 

The kiss is on your mind for the next two weeks. You try to write it off as a side effect of the drugs Dave was on, but he's been back from the hospital for a while and there are more lingering touches, more meaningful silences, like he's watching you, desperate for you to acknowledge what happened.

You want to. God, how you want to. It took you so unawares but you can't think about anything else anymore. His lips are on your mind before you sleep, in your dreams, swimming in the half-conscious fog of morning. You don't dare touch yourself anymore for fear his face will spring to mind.

Truthfully, you haven't done anything sexual in the past fortnight. There's a roiling guilt in the pit of your stomach, a combination of the circumstances and the feeling that you'd be unfaithful if you did anything with anyone other than him. This is fucking with you so much and this is the first time in ages you don't know how to deal with something.

So you ignore it, or you try to ignore it, but Dave is waiting for the other foot to fall, and you can't stay on one foot for much longer, despite all your skill and balance. Two weeks of this tip-toeing around the obese elephant in the room and it comes crashing down.

He's coming in from school, in a surly mood of cross eyebrows and slight frowns and scuffed carpet that tangles your heart and lungs into knots. You don't know what happened and you know he won't tell you, but there has to be something you can do for the kid.

Parental support has never been your forte. Hell, you were just a kid yourself when you had to start caring for him on your own, barely older than Dave. You learned by trial and error and the occasional self help book for when you were at your wit's end, but emotional intricacies have always left you at a loss.

You find yourself second guessing every impulse that runs through your brain as inappropriate. Frankly, it's starting to piss you off. You hate feeling ashamed and you hate thinking about feeling ashamed, so you're just going to cut this thought process short and do whatever the fuck comes to mind first.

Which happens to be snagging him into your chest, a casual, sincere movement that throws you both for a loop. Arms around him tightly, you can feel how tense he is, but then it bleeds out of him like a song and you can breathe again. His arms awkwardly come to rest around your hips, cast digging into your side, and you hug him, really hug him, feel his weight and presence and realness against you. He sighs against your sternum and rubs into the fabric of your shirt, and your fingers find his hair, tangling more than untangling as they inspect the platinum strands.

Moments pass, and any chances of passing this off as irony are lost. You both know how much the other enjoys this. Neither of you are pulling away, and you’re positive he can hear the arrhythmic pace of your heart against his ear.

You’d really rather not think about the implications of that. You’re too old to deal with shit like this. You don’t need to be developing feelings for this kid still clinging to your chest eagerly. There are no words for how goddamn wrong that would be, even for your sketchy moral compass. Statutory rape, and incest on top of that, not something you’d ever want on your record. You still have some semblance of a reputation you want to uphold.

Your thoughts are cut short when his casted arm reaches up and hooks behind your neck, pulling your face down to his level. He presses his lips to yours brashly. A searing white knife twists in your gut and it feels surreal, like some kind of dream, as your instincts take over and you forget yourself, hoisting him up by his legs and practically throwing him onto the futon to devour him with kisses. You can feel his strangled gasp more than hear it, the sounds vibrating through the arches of his body like a boy possessed. Fuck, this is hotter than it has any right to be, and it’s a struggle not to crush him under you, to hold back and just press chaste, closed-mouth kisses to him. Maybe this will get it out of his system.

No such luck, with the way he’s pressing his chest to yours, legs fidgeting like he wants to do something with them but is too afraid to get that intimate just yet. His breath is coming harshly through his nose in a way that reminds you of winded horses at the end of a race, and for being thirteen, he’s still got a pretty good grasp on how to kiss. You slow down, trying to pace him, trying to get him to calm himself and pull away and push you off. This is hormones for him, he’s hitting puberty, it means absolutely nothing, of course. A sick feeling squeezes at your center at that thought, but you hold onto it for your own sanity.

In the slowness, he does pull away, but just to pant lightly, nose pressed to yours in an unspoken promise to not move away. You breathe against him too, half tempted to get up and go, just pick up and leave and never mention this again, but his casted arm is still around your neck loosely and that would hurt him. He’s in more control than he probably realizes right now, a fact that’s actually kind of terrifying. Terrifying and relieving alike, because that means you don’t have to take full responsibility for what’s going on.

He opens his mouth, starting to say something, but decides against it. You’re curious, and so fucking tense, and you know from experience that whatever he could have said would help break whatever… whatever this was, dissolve the heightened feeling a little bit. Instead he just swallows and kisses you again, a little more hesitant this time. Feeling for your reaction, your reciprocation.

Play it cool. Replace your icy façade. Now is the time to discourage him, now is the time to end this before it gets somewhere it shouldn’t be. But you can’t help pressing back, even if it’s not as hungry and in control as most of your kisses tend to be. There’s an undeniable part of yourself that wants this, too, and he won’t shut up.

He sighs against you and relaxes into the cushion beneath him. A few more of your kisses find his lips before you try to sit up. He lets you, but his eyebrows betray his disappointment.

“We can’t do this, kid,” you mutter, standing.

You leave the room, but not before the image of Dave frowning with his thumb ghosting over his slightly swollen lips is seared into your mind.

A couple hours later, over the silence of dinner, he pipes up a reply to your earlier shut-down in a defensive and defiant tone. He’s staring at the sorry excuse for a breaded chicken breast, stabbing it with his fork pensively. “Nobody has to know.”

“The fuck are you on about?”

“The… the kissing and stuff. Nobody has to know.”

Dead air stretches, a sheet pulled straining-tight between you. The threads of responsibility are snapping as you actually consider his words; you could very easily hide this from others. But that doesn’t make it okay.

“You do know why I said no.” It’s not a question. He’s a smart kid. He knows.

“Yeah, and I think it’s bullshit. It’s not like we’re going to be dumbfucks about it. It’ll just be another thing between bros.”

“You say that now.”

“No, I’m serious.” He’s getting irritable, so you know how serious he really is. You can’t keep saying no if he’s going to be this pushy about it, which is a worrying thought, but there’s an undercurrent of pride, too: you never would have thought he’d press for this. He’s always seemed a little uneasy and embarrassed when it comes to sexuality in practice. He’s all puffed chests and bravado when talking about it but you never thought he’d actually be so insistent with any propositions.

“Hmm.” You think about it. It’ll be hard to pretend that episode on the futon didn't happen, especially after this conversation. You could set up ground rules, you guess. Kind of a fucked up subversion of parenting, since they’re applicable to you, too, but at least it would be something.

Pleading hope is practically radiating from Dave’s face. He looks young when he does that – no, he just looks his age. You’re used to him being precocious and well beyond his age, so much so that you forget he’s thirteen sometimes. It’s a slap to the face, a reminder that he’s a fucking kid, barely even a teenager. The youngest you’ve ever gone was seventeen, and even that left you with a sour taste in your mouth when you dropped her back off at home under the secrecy of nighttime breezes. It made you feel like the subject of a Springsteen song, one of those grimy middle-aged men who preys on young girls too naïve and flattered and stupid to say no.

He’s waiting for an answer. You’re honestly not sure what to tell him. It’s weak of you to push off the decision, so you won’t. No should really be the obvious choice but you can’t help but wonder if you two can pull this off. You need to be firm and responsible, though.

“Nah,” you say, and his face falls. You ignore him for the rest of the meal even with the twinging in your chest.

Later, you can’t sleep. That’s not an unusual thing for you, but it’s no less annoying. The sheets are twisted around you like a spider’s web, and your usually comfortable mattress is a slab of concrete. Your head is pounding and your limbs are tired but restless at the same time and you just need to work it out.

Getting up and finding your way to the kitchen is easy enough. Deciding what to ingest that won’t keep you up for longer is not. You finally give up with a slight sigh and start back to your room when you hear some whimpering from Dave’s room. Shit, he’s probably rolled over on his cast and hurt himself in his sleep.

The door opens with a gentle creak and you poke your head in. And freeze. And stare.

Dave’s got his boxers down and is fumbling with himself awkwardly, obviously not used to using his left hand. You should leave, just bolt before he notices you’re here, but you can’t stop fucking staring and then he looks up and the frustration on his face pauses as he makes eye contact with you.

“Bro,” he practically whines. “Help?”

Shit. “Go to bed,” you say, although it feels like your mouth is disconnected from your brain. Your eyes can’t tear away from his groin. Everything else is kind of in a sharp fog, viscerally there but not really important.

“I fucking can’t like this! It hurts!” He’s definitely whining now, and you can see he hurts, with how swollen and flushed his length is. He’s bigger than you thought he’d be, and that thought leaves you with a lingering acid reflux in your gut. It’s been too long since you’ve been laid, almost a fucking month, and he is there and fucking waiting.

Feet betraying you, you find yourself coming further into the room and sitting on the edge of his bed. Fuck, what the fuck are you doing? He’s looking at you guardedly, eyes bared, sunglasses left somewhere before bed.

Your brain is screaming for you to stop, to get up and leave, but your hand reaches out, fingertips grazing the darkened head. Dave hisses in a breath and you feel something in you lurch greedily, grasping him, taking control of those sounds. “Just this once,” you mutter, to him and to yourself, before you start, an experienced flick of your wrist coaxing moans from him with fervor. You’ve hardly busted out your bag of tricks before he’s letting go with a cracking yelp. Squeeze, tease, milk it all out of him, despite his shaking legs and labored squeaking breaths.

“Nnshit,” he mewls when you finally let go of him. “I-I. Oh.”

Standing, you train your eyes on the door. It’s hard not to just bolt out and immediately run your cum-spattered hand under a burning hot tap. Why the fuck did you think this was a good idea?

“Uh,” Dave murmurs at you, and you look at him on instinct.

He shies from your gaze slightly, breaking eye contact to stare at his sheets. “Thanks. I um.”

You can’t breathe, not with the crackling of whatever he’s about to say hanging in the air. “Out with it,” you urge.

“I love you,” he croaks embarrassedly, diving face first into his pillow. Molten honey courses through you and fills your bones, but you can still only muster a soft hum in response. You hope your reciprocation is obvious enough.

“Now get to bed, squirt.”

You’re not sure what you just started, but whatever you just did, you have a feeling it’s not reversible.


	4. Track 04: Still Dreaming / Dave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here enter more players, and the nature of the AU setting is more apparent.

Track 04: Still Dreaming  
Dave

 

The kisses from Bro weren’t your first, but the help last night certainly was a new experience. First time your meat sword was palmed by someone else like a greedy, hungry pickpocket in the bustling corner butcher shop during a Saturday rush.

Your first “real” kiss was with Terezi in sixth grade. You don’t really consider it legitimate, though. You dated for all of two weeks and the kiss is what ended it; it did absolutely nothing for you. Now, you’re not really out to the school, but Rezi knows. Actually, she’s the only one who knows, other than Bro now, you guess. She’s one of your best friends, and still insists on slathering your face with her saliva like a canine Gene Simmons. She’s a fuckin’ weirdo, but you’re bros, so you’re chill with it.

The day you get back to school, you glide around like a cat with mittens on a glass table. That doesn’t escape the notice of Terezi – you swear to god, she’s blind but she’s still ten times more observant than anyone else.

“You’re happy for a guy with a broken arm,” she remarks with a toothy grin at lunch. You shrug, even though she can’t see it.

“Nah.”

“Liar, liar, tallpants on fire!”

“That’s just ‘cause my ass is so hot it can’t be contained by mere mortal cloth.”

“Hehehe. But really, coolkid. What happened?”

You debate telling her. You don’t think she would really care about the kisses at least, but you’re not sure. She’s surprised you before with her open-mindedness, but this isn’t exactly socially acceptable like, anywhere. Not to mention illegal.

Hesitation clouding your thoughts, you decide to let her in on the basic gist without giving everything away. Some things have to stay between you and Bro or you know you’ll be in deep, deep shit, up a shit creek the size of the Mississippi without even an ironically duck-shaped floatie to keep you from drowning in the putrid muck. You’d just flail your way all the way down to the toilet bowl Gulf and sit there festering for a while until someone came to bludgeon you with the plunger of Law and Order (capitals not optional) and just when you thought you’d find a window of time to catch some air you’d be sailing your way down the flush drain of the Bermuda Triangle, never to be seen again.

Definitely not something you want to risk.

“First, we gotta lay down a Vegas Clause.”

“A what?”

“It means you have to promise not to go running your big hyaena mouth off to anyone else about this.”

“Please, do you trust me that little?”

“This is sensitive information, bro. If you’re not careful, you could put the whole known universe in jeopardy.”

“Hehehe.”

You take a deep breath. It should not be this nerve wracking to just say it, but it is. “Welp.”

“Spit it out, Dave Strider!”

“Got kissed last Friday.” You try to sound nonchalant, but you’re positive she can smell your excitement.

“By who??”

“By a one-eyed one-horned flying purple dick-eating space monster. Who do you think, Rez?”

“You never told me you liked anyone so I have no idea!” Her mouth quirks in irritation.

“Let’s just say they’re the only known person who manages to be cooler than me.”

Rezi looks thoughtful for a moment, tongue sticking out in a way you find adorable. “Is he a high schooler?”

“Closer, but no cigar. In fact, the cigar is so far away the Chinese dictator’s puffing on it like no tomorrow. He’s got his stubby fat fingers all over that shit, celebrating yet another ghetto neighborhood destroyed for the expansion of the Ching Chong shopping center.”

“Rude,” she replies haughtily, mouth turning down in her irritable quirk again.

“Seriously, Rez, who is literally the only person who ever beats me and does so on a regular basis? If you get this wrong I’m going to have to revoke your bro rights and strangle myself with my fruit-by-the-foot. Suffocation by sugary marbled color-fuck monstrosity.”

Her eyebrows jump up into her hairline. “Wait, you mean… You can’t mean him, he’s your brother!” Eyebrows pull down sharply again. “Come on, yanking my leg like that. Family kisses don’t count.”

“Do we look like the kind of family that does that?”

“So you… really?” She sounds hushed, and you feel sick to your stomach suddenly.

“Well…” You scramble to figure out how to make this less weird for her. “Technically, I kissed him. I was pretty high on painkiller and it just kinda happened. He didn’t pull away, though.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I dunno, he… he hasn’t mentioned it.” You swallow, feeling like a royal prick for lying to her. “I, um. I dunno. I kinda want it to continue.”

“Wow.”

You hate her tone. So condescending and judgey as fuck and she’s supposed to be your best friend for fuck’s sake. You shove her and she cackles and licks your cheek.

“Just be careful!” she grins, and you try not to pout.

“What are you guys talking about?” Egbert plops his school lunch tray next to you and sits down with a doofy grin. You try not to look at the unappetizing brown slop and fail. So much for enjoying your fruit-by-the-foot.

“Terezi is advising me against hang gliding off the school. She is convinced I’ll break my other arm. As if,” you deadpan.

Egbert falls for it, mouth gaping like the big-mouthed bass who fell for the old hook, line, and sinker shtick. He almost looks like the kid from Home Alone, lips forming an expressive O.

“Dave!” he chastises. “You’re too cool to keep doing dumb stunts like that!”

“We’re making this happen whether you think it’s a dumb stunt or not, bro. Besides, when I pull this off, the ladies won’t be able to keep their hands off me and you’ll be over in the corner crying your little prudey virgin eyes out because a girl won’t let you touch her boob.”

“Hey!” he sniffs. “That’s not fair. Besides, I almost maybe might ask Vriska to the Halloween dance. I hear she broke up with Eridan.”

“Whatever, Egbutt, you know how they are. Eridan goes crying back like a prissy baby and Vriska likes the way he grovels too much to deny being able to toy with him some more.”

The rest of the lunch conversations are unimportant and vapid. You barely participate anyway; you’re lost in your thoughts, under the guise of fruity junk food contemplation.

The bus is your only ride home. The doctor forbade you from skateboarding home until your arm heals, despite your vehement denial that it was the skateboard’s fault. If anything, you shouldn’t be allowed around vehicles until you heal.

The seat in the far back is empty and you claim it with an aggressive slump. The bus starts off with an unpleasant cough of the engine and you stare at trees and buildings passing by, zoning out until you get to your stop. The books in your backpack pull heavily at your shoulders as you trudge up the 14 flights of stairs to your apartment – not using the elevator has been a family rule punishable by no-mercy beatdowns since you were six – and literally the only thing that keeps you from plunking yourself down on the stairs like a flea-bitten cantankerous stray dog and staying there a while is the fact that Bro’s up there, waiting for you.

That thought acts as a Red Bull shot straight to the butt with the way you’re suddenly flying up the stairs. Your calves may be burning, and your shoulders may feel like they’re going to be dislocated, but that’s okay.

He’s playing video games when you finally get in, huffing for breath. Years of intense training has you dropping your backpack on the ground and continuing to barrel forward without a second thought, though; what’s a bit of short breath when Bro is right fucking there?

Catapulting over the futon is a little difficult without the use of your right arm, but you manage to land on your good side, even if you end up with your face in his lap. Which, you know, you consider a plus, except for the fact it wasn’t what you originally planned.

Bro sits up straighter, tense. You smirk up at him, hoping to convey some kind of mischievous libido and hide your quivering. You’re a fucking Strider, and Striders don’t quiver.

He pushes you off of him with a grunt. Your smirk disappears but you linger, leaning against him closer than you used to dare. He lets you stay, so you push a little closer, getting comfy.

“How was school?” he finally asks, perfect monotone except for that tinge of awkwardness that only you could pick up on.

“Boring as fuck, what else is new,” you state definitively, good hand reaching down to his thigh. You’ve been thinking about it for a while, and you really want to return the, um, favor, with the way he helped you out last night. You want this thing, whatever it is, between you to be equal, not something that will make Bro feel bitter or resentment toward you. You love the shit out of him, although you’d be loathe to admit it… except you guess in cases of mental instability, like being high, or feeling like your everything is made out of stardust jelly.

You feel kind of dumb now, for just blurting it out at him like that. He probably thinks you’re really fucking stupid now. For all you know this doesn’t mean anything to him.

Well, fuck that, you’re going to make it mean something if it doesn’t already.

He’s doing his best to ignore you now, but as you slide off the couch and climb between his legs his head drops toward you, eyebrows raising high into the shade from his cap. You have his jeans unbuttoned and unzipped, hand reaching in, leaned forward with tongue slightly extended in anticipation before he’s shoving you away with an angry sound.

“You’re not gonna fucking… No.” His tone leaves no room for interpretation or argument.

You argue anyway. “Why not? Just returning the favor.”

“Not that way you’re not. Fuck, Dave, you’re…,” he pauses to swallow, mouth pressing into a subtle grimace. “You’re thirteen. Go do your homework or something.”

Stubbornly, you crawl back between his knees. “No. Let me do something. Please.”

His hands are still heavily on you, putting pressure to keep you from getting any closer, but he doesn’t exert any more force as you finish pulling him out. Your breath catches for a moment and you realize why he didn’t want you to suck him off: holy fuck is he huge. He is literally the biggest guy you have ever seen. Granted, you’ve only ever seen barely-pubescent boys in the locker rooms during gym and swimming, but still.

Grasping him a little timidly, you’re absolutely positive that if you were a girl, you’d have creamed through your panties like your vagina was an erupting volcano by now.

He drops the controller to his video game. The skater grunts as his sprite is driven into a wall, but neither of you pay it any mind. Bro’s now-empty hand twitches against the futon futilely, and despite your wildly beating heart you start to stroke him before he can change his mind about this. He’s throbbing, you can actually feel him throbbing underneath your fingers, cock steadily pointing toward the ceiling. You’re a junk drawer of emotions right now, all tangled slinkies and large koosh balls and loose, boxless playing cards bent a little from when you were a little too enthusiastic about fifty-two card pickup. You bring your second hand awkwardly to join your first, despite its movement more constricted by your cast.

You’re going to burst if you don’t get closer to him, somehow. Without even thinking your lips reach forward again, mouthing around the head, a kiss to demonstrate the hiccup in your heart. He hisses and his hand finds your hair, gripping hard; not to pull you closer, but to pull you off, which feels like a punch in the gut. The taste of his pre-cum is acrid on your tongue, and you swallow a few times, but still it lingers, an organic silt trapped in the bank of your gums.

“I told you no,” he growls hoarsely, his fingers lessening their grip as you breathe heavily against his skin. Your hands slip up and down his length faster, desperate to please him in his anger. He bites back a groan and you press against his leg to feel closer to that salacious heat.

Curses blossom in your skull every time your inexperienced hands slip and falter, but he doesn’t seem to care; his head has tilted against the futon’s back, and his breath is coming in shallow bursts. Your arms are tired but you don’t dare stop until he’s finished.

It seems like ages before he’s biting into his lip with a guttural rasp and pumping out over your hands. You catch it, horny out of your skull at the fact you just got him to come, that’s it’s fucking on you. He won’t look at you for a moment, but that’s okay, because it’s hard to tear your gaze away from his softening length.

His cum is caustically bitter, too. It’s sticky on your hand but slides easily over your tongue, like milky molasses. Bro pulls your hand from your mouth sharply with a wordless bark and you know you’re in trouble again, but somehow it doesn’t bother you as much as it should.

“You dirty little shit, I’m not giving you a fucking STD.”

You honestly hadn’t thought about that. It’s obvious, in hindsight, that Bro’s been exposed to dozens of diseases. The thought makes your stomach turn.

Bro throws his shirt at you and stands. “Clean it up with that,” he mutters, and then he’s peacing out.


	5. Track 05: Rapture / Bro

Track 05: Rapture  
Bro

 

You are the worst person imaginable. What the fuck is wrong with you, that you let that happen again? Dave is a kid. Your responsibility is to make sure he’s not going to become totally fucked up. But how are you supposed to prevent that when you’re the one causing it?

He wanted to blow you. Thirteen fucking years old, and he had no hesitation in starting his mouth over you. You can’t help but think that’s your fault, for the environment you raised in him, for letting this become something. The only thing to do is to forget any of this happened, ignore any future advances and get him involved in some extracurricular or something that will make him too busy to think about this anymore.

You know it won’t happen. You know you’ll be incapable of saying no if he propositions you again. The feeling is bizarre, unpleasant but not concretely so, just a kind of niggling slush slowly melting into your abdominal cavity. Guilt, that’s something you can place, guilt so heavy you feel leaden, made of glassy sharp stone. Something bubbles on the surface like boiling wax, scalding and terrifying and full of energy all at once. You don’t keep your mind on that. You can’t, because you know what it is, and you know you can’t give in to it. You can’t start to view Dave that way; you can’t start to look forward to these romps, because every fiber of your logic knows it can end in nothing but disaster. It already is a disaster. Every step you take forward is only putting you further into the bonfire.

Prison. That’s where you’ll be if you don’t fucking stop. Think of prison, of Dave being taken from you – dear god, that can never happen. You won’t let it happen.

This is going to stop. No more.

It occurs to you, later, that you should have known at this point it’d be impossible to backtrack. The look he’s giving you from across the room twists your essence into a vicious snarl of lust and nausea. For once, you’re frozen in HIS gaze, the deer to his blindingly flashing headlights. The only part of you that manages to move from your rooted spot in a kitchen chair is your heart. It’s migrated to your throat, pulsing out a frantic plea for a way out of this situation.

Dave saunters over to you like some kind of fucking jungle cat, all unsheathed claws and sleek motion. His teeth flash you briefly in a lopsided grin. You are so fucking far gone. There is no turning back. You’re tied to the riverbed of the goddamn Rio Grande and you’re positively drowning in his presence.

He stops in front of you, hands in his pockets casually. Probably waiting for some kind of cue, but your throat is dry and mute. You swallow, throat rasping, and manage a rough, “Sup.”

Within a moment, he’s straddling you, all heavy hands and kisses and breathing. You should push him away, but instead your hands grasp around him, tight, giving him no chance to back out. The heat coiling in your muscles should be more disgusting than it is; the only thing running through your mind right now is how fucking long it’s been since your last lay. Your hands find their way to his ass, cupping and pulling him closer to you, not much regard for pleasantries. He sucks in a breath through his nose harshly and presses closer, teeth gnashing at your lips. You push back, dominant, a reprimand for his messy kissing. He becomes a bit softer, but no less fast, a pleading thrum in every connection of his lips to yours.

A hardness digs into your own. You press up into it, relishing in the needy whimper that escapes from Dave before he can put a damper on his voice. He rolls his hips experimentally and your eyes go out of focus for a moment.

Leaning even closer, his chest plastered to yours, you think for a brief moment you may have found nirvana, but then it all comes crashing down around you – or wait, that’s the chair you’re sitting in, conceding to the siren call of gravity and the kitchen floor. You grunt at impact and the wooden slats digging into your spine, but Dave doesn’t pause for a second, sliding to sit on your stomach and rub his ass against your crotch.

Christ.

He gets a few more kisses in before he pulls back, hazy eyes locked on where yours would be. His shades have slipped to his lower nose. “Please,” he murmurs. “Please fuck me.”

You consider it. You honestly do. There’s nothing more you’d rather do right now than bend him over the kitchen table and pound him until he’s screamed his throat raw. The idea sends an electric shiver up your spine, but you have to fight it. This is so. Fucking. Wrong.

A kiss shuts him up for the time being so you can think. Your resolve isn’t strong enough to keep him away if he decides to go the skanky begging route. And you know he will, he’s not above that kind of cheap manipulation; he used to do it back when he was younger, wanting cookies or toys or whatever the shit else he decided he must have at that very moment. You were better at deflecting those puppy eyes back then, but now… You want this, too. It’d be hard to push away someone when your own core is screaming for the same thing.

You say nothing, instead smoothing your hands down his back in an explorative concession. You’ll let him believe you’ll oblige him; it’s the least you can do, really, after how much you know he’s been shredded raw with his longing. Your mouth finds his throat and he holds still, pulse a small canary beating against its cage. Teeth graze his skin and he lets out a small sound, and you know if you’re not careful you’ll break him.

His shirt, you decide, is a restriction; your hands tease up the back of the fabric, laying gently swirling lines up his spine. He pulls away from you for a brief moment to rip the shirt off of his back, pausing only when it snags on his cast. You take the time to appraise him silently, memorize every smooth plane for later, because you swear this will be the last time this happens.

He’s moving again, gyrating against your abdomen, smoothing his uncasted hand down his chest like some kind of stripper on MTV. It seems practiced, and you wonder how often he’s done this, alone in his room, fantasizing about you two together. A groan bursts from you and your hands return to him, fingers grasping him as if you could brand him with your fingerprints. Yours. Every last inch of him, yours.

“Bro,” he murmurs, hand moving to his pants, teasing at the button. “Bro, please.”

Fuck. You can’t do this. Any self control you thought you had is gone, slumped out behind the tool shed, peppered through the middle with a shotgun and then set on fire. You want him so fucking bad. No, that’s not entirely accurate. You need him, you literally need him, and suddenly all pretenses at foreplay are the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You need him now.

With a fluid roll, you’re up on your feet, Dave grasped between hands, turned over and pressed to the kitchen table. He gasps, and there’s a note of frantic delight in it, one that makes you grind against him unabashedly for a moment while you wrestle your shirt off. Skin presses against skin as you lean over and whisper harshly into his ear.

“You are in so much fucking trouble for doing this to me, do you hear?”

His reply is hardly coherent, burst out between deliciously needy pants. “God, yes, anything, please.”

You’re anything but gentle, blunt fingernails scraping against his stomach in hard lines down to his hips, where you rip at his waistband without concern for anything else. The sounds bursting from him make it hard to think straight, so you give up trying, letting your desire take over, for once. Your teeth find his neck and his muscles go limp, giving himself to your higher powers and accepting his submissive role with no hesitation.

This is going to be messy. There’s no way around it; this won’t end up like the rendezvous you shared with him before, where you could both walk away with minimal stains, physical and emotional alike. This will shake you both to the core, eviscerate any vestiges of moral standing, strike your last chances of getting into Paradise unscathed. You guess you’d better get used to barbeque, because there’s no stopping you at this point. You’re on the highway to Hell and you’re gunning over 80 to get there.

His jeans are loose, and you remind yourself vaguely to feed him more often before plunging a hand below their line and grasping at his center. He whines, a deep, throaty sound, and you press up closer behind him. He fits against you perfectly, each line matching your own on a smaller scale. You slide against him, tug his jeans and boxers to fall to the ground with your shirts, never ceasing the heavy movements with your hand.

He’s impatient, bucking against you, hand curled tightly on the edge of the kitchen table, broken arm splayed outward across the wood. You pull away for only the couple seconds it takes to devoid yourself of your own pants, the accursed boxer-briefs caging your heady erection, and then you’re on him again, mouthing his throat, palming out whimpery groans from him roughly. With your legs bared, you can feel the trembling from his legs, like heat waves shimmering on black asphalt. You stroke a hand down his thigh, soft and slow, a reminder of the consideration you’ll give him. He calms slightly, but his fingers grip tighter at the table, knuckles bloodless and porcelain pale.

“Calm down, Dave,” you murmur, and he stills completely, leans back against you, and it’s that moment he’s completely yours. You feel almost guilty as you push his head violently to the table and bend over him, heated throbbing flesh pressed to his backside, a sinner begging to be let into its confessional.

The moment is here, and he’s bent for you, submissive, voice barely a keen as he craves you inside him, and you hesitate. This is something you can never take back. Once you’re past this point, you have literally leapt head-first into the pits of hell. And you’re bareback; in all the ravishing you nearly forgot yourself. Fuck, how could you do this to him? You step away. He shivers from the sudden lack of contact, whining your name in a throaty cry.

“Be… be right back,” you grind out and fly to the futon, digging amongst the magazines and smuppet rumps for a condom, any condom, you know you have some stashed under here if they would just appear for chrissake –

There, a mostly-crunched box of Trojans, please don’t be empty, please don’t be empty.

One left. One beautiful, perfect condom left in the box. You check the seal; it bounces, still good. A wash of relief pulses through you as you rip it open with your teeth and roll it on expertly. Dave is still bent over the table, panting deliciously. You return to him, stilling your hammering heart with held breath and gentle, almost feather-light touches against his shoulders, sides, hips. You kiss his ear, no wetness, just the soft butterfly of lips against pink shell.

“We don’t have to do this,” you hum, giving him a way out, finding yourself pleading he’ll take it. Despite every slice of sensation in you wanting nothing more than to take him now, you want him to chicken out more. He’s still in control, even if it feels so far from that.

His answer is devoid of words, just a stretched-out grunt and a curl of his spine that presses his ass flush against you. God. So much for that plan, and so much for clear thought. Your head swims with lust and affection so strong it very literally pains you to contain it all. Here and now, holding him beneath you, waiting for your connection – it doesn’t feel wrong. It causes simultaneous hurt and soaring, blazing ecstasy, something your kisses peppering his back are attempting to capture, but still inside you ache, needing him on a level you finally admit to yourself freely.

“Bro,” he says, breaking into your feverish reverie with an impatient waver, “are we going to do this or not?”

There’s still the question of whether you want to be the one to push him that deeply, warp even his insides. That sharp thought leaves a sickness on your tongue again, and you sigh, kiss along his spine, and hike his hips up higher. “Hold your legs together tight,” you order, and he obeys just as you slide between them, grinding against his taint. The sound he makes can’t be human, and you groan in unison, the baritone harmony to his tenor whine.

You thrust, ebbing and flowing with the harsh breaths crashing against the shore of his teeth. Unlike most lays you’ve had, this doesn’t require a practice period, to let your motion and feelings synch. He’s anything but hesitant, brazenly pressing back against you with every smooth flick of your hips, and you realize, this is what people mean when they say sex with a soul mate is like a perfect fit, despite the awkward and somewhat painful press against the table, despite the lack of actual penetration, or eye contact. Eye contact now would overwhelm you. Every desire, every pure unadulterated craving, is obvious in the way his skin trembles to your touch, the way his pulse scrapes out through his voice, just so. To see that radiating from his gorgeous ruby eyes would send you over the edge too fast, make this far from a fulfilling first time for him. You will please him first, even if it means torture for you.

Though you don’t really think it will take that long. His balls are already tightening above your frictional plunge, a crawling itch you know too well. You reach around him, grasp him again, gentle, applying pressure in all the right places, and he comes with a soft, vulnerable whimper that simultaneously makes you want to attack his mouth with violent kisses, and cry to soften the clamping hurt of your heart.

Pulling away from him, you let him cascade down the aftershocks, tending to yourself instead. Your free hand rubs along his back in time with your quickening pulls, reluctant to stop touching him; there’s a part of you that knows if you left him now, even if it were inches away, it would devastate him. You remember your first time. Contact right after is just as important as contact during, if not more. In those moments, all the fierce passion leaves and you’re left with nothing but vulnerability and the paranoid fear that putting trust in your partner was not a good idea.

It’s his continued panting breaths that push you over, shooting into the condom, leaning against him to feel him close as you ride it out. He shivers at the sudden warmth, so you gather him up in your arms, hold him to your chest, press possessive kisses to his flushed skin.

“Mine,” you murmur, the hazy afterglow dappling your vision and persuading maudlin proclamations. Not once have you felt this free and sated after sex. It’s as if every ragged piece of your life has finally locked into place, and there’s literally not a damn thing for you to worry about ever again.

Dave turns, pressing his face to you instead of his back. His face is damp. You cradle your arms protectively around his shoulders, suddenly feeling like a mother hen. Concerned, you ask, “Hey, darlin’, you alright?”

“I…” he starts, fades out, tries again. “Bro, you’re sixteen years older than me.”

It stings. It really does, and it catches you off guard so close to a moment you thought had brought you closer together. You’re a disgusting excuse for a guardian, the vilest thing to walk on two legs, and what had happened to never again? Your self-control would be hysterical, if it didn’t repulse you. You should let go of him, stop adding to this irredeemable mess, but you can’t. If you let go of him now, you’ll never be able to repair this.

“Dave, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –”

“Why are you apologizing?” His voice is small, tentative but gaining courage. “I’m not… I’m okay. I’m fine.”

You push him at arms’ length, cupping his face in both hands. His cheeks are sticky with tears, but his eyes are earnest, needling at you. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Honestly, you don’t have an answer for him. Two beats and then you shrug, avoiding eye contact despite your shielding shades. He lifts a hand, slides them from you gently, and you don’t stop him.

“Bro,” he demands, forcing you to return to his gaze. “I’m fine. You don’t have to be sorry. I wanted this. You wanted this. No big deal.”

It suddenly hits you how bizarrely the roles have reversed. You laugh, eyes crinkling at your own pathetic insecurity, pull him back to you, face to his hair and arms tight around him. You can’t believe how fucking stupid you’re being. The kid’s playing damage control for you. What’s coming to this world when he’s gotta take that role?

Dave cracks up, breath chuffing against your collarbones, and you both dissolve to the floor in a heap of giggles, high on giddy hormones. It’ll be okay. You’ll make this work somehow, and it’ll be okay.

After a few minutes of awkward closeness on the kitchen floor, you push him up, throw his pants at him. “Get dressed, you lazy buttfuck,” you snap, unable to keep your mouth from pulling at the edges in a deeply satisfied smile. He snorts but pulls his jeans on, ignoring his boxers entirely.

“You’re not my mom, asshole,” he gripes playfully.

“Good thing, too, or I’d be the most attractive MILF this side of fucking Texas.”

“Ballsnogger.”

“Don’t make me whoop you.”

“What? It’s true.”

You spring up, pulling your pants on as you chase him to the counter and pin him, stealing a kiss. “Your turn to take out the trash, you dirty ragamuffin. Get.” You turn him loose, kicking him gently toward the door.

“Aw man, fuck this,” he gripes, but opens the door anyway, grabbing the overstuffed garbage bag on his way out.

Admiring his ass as he stomps his way out the door is unavoidable, as is the burst of emotion and pride for the kid that bubbles up. You dart forward, grab his shoulder before he can get too far down the hallway, and turn him around.

“What now?” he grumbles without much anger, bare toes curling against the cheap hallway carpeting. You don’t give him a verbal reply. Instead, you lean in, capturing his mouth in the least guilt-driven kiss you’ve ever given him, full of sincere reciprocation of feelings and a promise to make this work. After a solid second you pull away, pat his shoulder, and head back inside.

Before the door shuts loudly behind you, you can hear the soft exhale of an ‘oh’ from Dave, and the sound makes you positively, unironically giddy.

You are the luckiest man alive.


	6. Track 06: Let It Rain / Dave

Track 06: Let It Rain  
Dave

 

You are the luckiest man alive. It’s unbelievable how your most secret fantasies have played out, blossoming into reality like perfumed daisies in a fucked up, garbage-packed dump. Nothing could make today anything less than fantastic, not with the way your insides flop around like a histrionic goldfish out of water at the barest thought of Bro. And bare thoughts you have, slick and fluid and dangerously arousing until you put a tamper on it.

For once in your life you’re finding it nearly impossible to keep stoic. Anything that reminds you of him – and most everything does – sends you into Victorian-grade hysteria. You practically require a swooning couch so the constraints on your breathing don’t make you pass out.

Almost everyone has to have noticed, but it’s not until art class that anyone says anything.

“You’re awfully chipper today, David,” the lavender blonde otherwise known as Rose quips with thinly-veiled interest.

“Oh, no, I am not letting you psychoanalyze my happiness today, Lalonde,” you snort. “I don’t need you telling me some bullshit about the deeper significance of my smile and how it shows I’m repressed to the point of Fundie emotional constipation.”

“I would assert no such thing. In fact, you seem to be experiencing a case of the emotional runs.”

“The happies are just shooting out of me like liquid fire, what can I say.”

Rose turns back to her drawing, adding tufts of grass beneath the bulbous undercarriage of her eldritch octothing with quick, precise jerks of her wrist. “Regardless of any charming bathroom metaphors you care to impress me with, I am rather curious as to your current state of mind.”

“You and the rest of Houston, babe.” You add a dab of red to the mess of squiggled colors on your page, smearing it around until it’s a vast glob of warm brown. Your genre of choice the past week has been abstract expressionism; the less need for precise detail that your broken arm can’t handle, the better.

She continues to needle at you until the intercom buzzes and a slightly garbled voice demands your presence in the front office. Which is weird, because you don’t remember doing anything particularly stupid at school lately.

Your cast has kinda kept you from the sinister business you got down to generally anyway. The best you’ve managed is insulting your teachers in perfectly rhyming sick beats, which usually serves to more boggle their minds that you’re that quick at the word draw than actually insult them. Still a win for you, though, because it proves your intelligence is worth more than some chump with a degree. Like they could ever manage something as smooth as your raps. Your raps are smoother than a baby’s powdered rump, naked and laying stomach-down on a rabbit fur area rug, grinning stupidly at a camera capturing its infant glee with the intentions of blackmailing the kid when he brings his first girlfriend home.

The images of butterball babies continue to bounce around the imagination theater of your mind as the teacher shoves you out into the hall and you slouch your way toward the office. There’s a side door at the end of the hallway, taunting you with its freedom, open air and grass and the perfect anarchy of a day without classes. Under any other circumstance, you’d have just allez-oup’ed out of there, the only proof you ever made an appearance the soft olfactory remnants of your strawberry shampoo (the use of which totally counts as ironic even if you sincerely like how it makes you smell).

But the fact remains that you are really fucking curious as to why, exactly, Snowman wants to tear you a new asshole this time. You’re more than ready to word strife with her, brainstorming rhyming pairs and unique insults that you store at the forefront of your mind so you can fire them off machine-gun rapid when the need arises.

As you turn the corner, you slow, lingering behind the staircase adjacent to the office so you’re not spotted. John is just outside the doors, chatting pleasantly with his father. You’ve known the man for ages, even know his first name, but despite all the time you’ve spent at Egbert’s abode and ate his food and watched his TV, you’re still not completely comfortable around him. He’s just so damn parental that you can’t really relax, because your specific brand of relaxing includes profanities and irreverence for the furniture and somehow you feel like that wouldn’t go over very well with Egbert Senior. So instead you’ve always been haltingly polite, not saying much when he’s in the room. You never even call him anything, because Mr. Egbert sounds too formal for how long you’ve known him but calling him James is much too fucking personal.

And Egbert is reserved for the overbiting charcoal head kid of his.

John finishes his conversation with his dad and meanders off elsewhere, and Mr. Egbert steps into the office. You creep forward, feeling ridiculous for having the instinct to ninja your way in there, but your curiosity has the best of you and you really want to figure out why the hell he’s there before Snowman brings her wrought iron fist down upon your pert backside.

He says something to the secretary, who smiles and points him further into the office, where he disappears into another room. The counselor’s office. You wonder if John’s having problems or something. Seems odd for his dad to take care of it, though. Bullying? John’s always seemed impervious to the sort of bullshit kids picked on him for, though, mostly because you’ve been picking on him for the same things for years before those simpletons ever had the idea. You’ve always been ahead of the curve, really. Comes with the package of being a Strider.

Figuring you’ll ask John about it later, you kick open the front office door (gently) like you own the place, which really, the frequency you hang out in here they might as well sign over the real estate papers and give you the keys. Ms. Paint, the secretary, smiles at you, thin-lipped, and tucks a piece of her hair behind an ear.

“There you are,” she murmurs, directing you behind her. “The counselor wants to see you.”

What? Why the hell would the counselor want to see you? Your feet take you to the door and your hand knocks, but you’re still confused and thinking this must be a trap until the door opens and Mrs. White is standing there, John’s dad sitting on the couch behind her normally reserved for crying angst-filled teenagers. She’s looking just as royal as always in a white dress and gold bangles, but the even genuine smile she’d normally give you in the hallways in passing is pinched, worried. Pitying?

“This is Mr. Egbert, David. He’s here to talk to you about some things. I’ll give you two some privacy but if you feel the need for me to sit in on the conversation, don’t hesitate to get me, mmkay?”

You just gape at her, feel yourself nod, and she sashays out, ushers you in, and closes the door behind her. The seat beside John’s dad is open, but you’ve always felt weird sitting next to him. There’s just something so off-limits about the man, so proper and clean-shaven to your hap-dash everything. As if sensing this, he smiles at you, a reassuring father smile that makes you feel vaguely sick.

“Sit wherever you’re most comfortable,” he says. The skin around his eyes crinkle a bit with his ever-present smile.

You sit on Mrs. White’s swivel chair and hook your feet around the horizontal legs.

Silence stifles the room. The only sound managing to weasel its way past your thundering pulse is the consistent click of the plastic clock near the door. You concentrate on it, match your breathing to its rhythm, and your tension ebbs slightly.

“So how are you today, Dave?” he starts finally, calmly, as if murmuring to a cornered animal, keep you placated and not panicked. Instead of wild mass-guessing on his intentions, you latch onto the fact he called you by your nickname – he often forgets, prefers formality over familiarity, so the gesture is appreciated.

“Good,” you say. True, at least until he stepped in to fuck with you. You’re still not sure why he came all the way over here to talk to you without the counselor. Did you say something overly mean to Egbert? Did he go running to his dad about how his best friend is also a bully? You highly doubt he’d do something like that, but what the fuck else could be the explanation? Maybe he found out about that one time you sent John shitty Japanese shota porn mislabeled as National Treasure 3. It was one of the greatest pranks you ever managed to pull on him, but he definitely didn’t agree with you. Especially not with the way you whisper “ochinchin” into his ear whenever he least expects it.

“How’s life at home?” John’s dad interjects, breaking you away from those particular corrupt thoughts. They shift over to last night, and it’s all you can do to keep a straight face. Waffling, you stumble around your mouth for a proper response and just kind of shrug.

“It’s okay.” You’re glad you’ve never really talked much in front of the man. The monosyllabic answers are more in character that way, less incriminating. Why is he even here, asking you about your life? You have a sinking suspicion you know what’s going on but fuck, if you just pretend like it’s not, maybe it won’t happen.

John’s dad sighs a bit, shifts, crosses his leg. You’d guess it’s an attempt to look comfortable, make you feel more at home, less interrogated, but all it does is make you feel anxious. “I just want it to be clear that you’re not in trouble,” he starts, and shit, you’re still confused but you know this is bad and something is really, very bad and you’re not really sure how to get yourself out of something you don’t even understand. “I’m just here to talk, as a friend.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on,” you sputter, and you are not going to say another damn thing until this is explained. You’re not going to dig yourself a hole. You know your rights.  
He smiles, puts his leg back down, leans forward. “I’m a social worker, did you know that? John might not have ever told you. I’ve just heard you’ve had some problems lately and I want to help out where I can.”

Ohhh fuck no. Fuck. No. This isn’t happening, why did it have to happen now, worst fucking timing, worse timing than, than, you can’t even think of an apt metaphor right now because you’re shaking and this is so not chill of you but you can’t stop because what if Bro gets found out? What if you get taken away from him, what if they misunderstand everything and they think he’s hurting you and – you cradle yourself inward without meaning to, casted arm held like a fragile instrument.

“You okay?” your tormentor’s voice pushes through the cracks of your sudden shield of anxiety, and you do your best to ignore him, but he’s standing now and touching your shoulder. “How did you break your arm?” with a soft, understanding tone, not accusing, but you freak out anyway, because will he even believe you?

“Skateboarding accident,” you mutter, you won’t look at him, he’ll just figure you’re making shit up but you really aren’t, and why did your arm have to be broken now, when everything about your life is under scrutiny, and by your best friend’s dad no less.

He touches a random bruise on your arm, asks again where it came from. You try to remember how that one happened; it’s not like you keep track of the origins of most of your bruises and cuts, you get them so often. “Dunno. Fell down stairs or something.” You do fall down the stairs kind of often. There are so many of them to get to your apartment and you’re still not used to the intense cardio it takes to climb up them every single fucking day.

“Hmm.” That’s all he says, a big fat hmm. Then he pats you on the shoulder again, thanks you, opens the door. “Meet me here after school, alright, Dave? I’ll drive you home,” and you just nod numbly and scurry out as fast as your legs can carry you, feeling feeble and unsteady like a daddy long leg on a patch of ice in the wind. Spindly and awkward and about to get blown the fuck over by a particularly strong gust.

You can’t handle the rest of school today. You just can’t.

As you stagger your way into the library to hunker down behind the reference section where nobody will find you for a while, you pull out your phone and pull up pesterchum.

TG: bro cps is on to us fucking clean up the house theyre coming after school  
TG: seriously dont fuck this up im shitting my pants scared over here  
TG: bro where the fuck are you oh m ygod

He doesn’t answer, so instead you hunker down and pretend you don’t exist for a while, trying to absorb yourself into the encyclopedias digging into your spine.

You hate your life. You are the most unlucky son of a whore in the entire universe.


End file.
